


Infortunate Inconveniences

by Pansexualweirdo



Category: Little Misfortune (Video Game), Original Work
Genre: A Trilogy, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Brief Appearance of Sally Face Characters, Crossover, Crows, Demonic Possession, Gen, Hearing Voices, Horror, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Instability, Mind Manipulation, Nonbinary Characters Written By A Nonbinary Author, Nonbinary Main Character, Own Characters Set In Pre-existent Universe, Post-Canon Game, References To Little Misfortune, References to Depression, The Eyes Of Morgo :), They/Them pronouns for Dorian, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25340434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansexualweirdo/pseuds/Pansexualweirdo
Summary: Dorian Incommodum is a 22 y/o art student who lives alone in a flat in Openfields, Sweden. One day, while they're painting, they hear an unfamiliar voice calling their name. It goes by the alias of "Mr Voice" and it tells them it's from within their unconscious. Alarmed but intrigued, Dorian tries to find out what Mr voice wants.This is in the POV of my first ever OC, who's placed in the Little Misfortune universe and has nonbinary, gender neutral pronouns, aka they/them. They're very dear to me and I hope you love them just as much as I do! Happy reading! <:[[These ' ' quotations are for thoughts or internal dialogue, which Mr Voice uses as well as Dorian when they're in public. These " " quotations are for speaking. It shouldn't be too confusing xx]]
Relationships: Dorian Incommodum (OC) & Morgo (Little Misfortune), OC & Mr Voice
Comments: 12
Kudos: 6





	1. A deal

Dorian Incommodum. This is the interesting name two unhappy parents gave a very uninteresting individual. Dorian because it’s pretty, from Irish origin (which is important to their father with a strong Irish heritage) and most importantly, because it's a name at all. Their parents had to name their child something. So Dorian it was.

Incommodum is Latin for inconvenience, which is ironic if you ask Dorian themselves. This surname has been passed down through generation after generation, and Dorian hopes to be the last one carrying it.

It’s an early afternoon in the small city of Openfields, Sweden. Dorian is in their zen place, painting while watching a new show on Netflix. They are more often multitasking than not, but would never admit it aloud. At least they’re not doing homework and listening to lofi while crying, so that’s always something. Besides, Dorian finds their weekends sacred, the only time they’re allowed to take a break and do whatever activities they find relaxing.

They’re painting a bird in flip-flops, an odd idea they got from a friend showing them their photoshop skills, and they’re humming on a tune with a paintbrush between their teeth, working on the bird’s colorful feathers.

That’s when Dorian hears something peculiar. It’s no louder than a hum from deep within their unconscious, but it breaks their focus all the same.

‘Dorian…’ a voice rumbles, one they have never heard before. It only grazes their mind, like an involuntary thought entering and leaving. Their hand stills and they listen, dead silent even though they _know_ it’s not an outside voice. But they don’t recognize it, and that’s what’s bothering them.

A beat. The end theme to the show on the television. Silence.

Hearing nothing more, Dorian shakes their head, making sure to beat the “next episode starts in five seconds” announcement by turning the TV off. They continue painting but stay on their guard.

Dorian doesn’t believe in supernatural forces, but the voice that had just- spoken? Thought? _Signaled_ them? - it's not their own, and even though faint, it felt as though a presence was connected to it. Not necessarily a part of Dorian themselves, but rather a momentary visit to their senses. There is no other way of explaining it.

Dorian huffs out a frustrated sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt around the wooden shaft of the brush, now they’re distracted from their work. And they were making such good progress on it as well!

Then Dorian hears their name again, and it’s louder this time. Impossible to play off as a thought of their own, because why would they be thinking their own name in a foreign voice? The paintbrush falls from Dorian’s mouth, and they whip around, their hair falling from the messy bun tied haphazardly on their head and into their eyes. The presence is internal, no doubt about it, but Dorian won’t take any chances. They stalk into the hallway and make sure their front door is still locked.

It is, the chain above the door handle latched on as well. Feeling incredibly stupid but hoping to calm their fear when they (with any luck) don’t receive a response, Dorian calls out.

“Hello?”

This wouldn’t be the first time Dorian’s talking to themselves. They live alone in the cramped space of a small flat, you can’t blame them for trying to keep themselves entertained.

Dorian grinds their teeth, hoping they won’t hear a thing. This is the first in a long time they want the silence.

They don’t get it.

‘Ah, so you _can_ hear me. Then why on Earth would you ignore me? I find it all quite rude, I’ll have you know.’

Dorian blinks a couple of times, their breathing has stopped entirely and they’re clenching their fists till their knuckles whiten to avoid a complete breakdown. They’re pretty sure it’s coming some time or another. Their apartment is empty, after all, and yet there’s someone _here_ , _talking_ to them.

The first impression Dorian gets of the voice is that it’s sassy. It’s low and masculine, underlined with humor and a smidge of criticism. The voice is expecting an answer, talking to Dorian as if it all is mentally sound and logical. And most confusing of them all, it’s _British_. Why was it British?

This is it, Dorian’s finally gone crazy, they conclude. Cooped up in this shitty apartment for days on end, doing nothing but studying and binge-watching mediocre shows. They wonder what state of insanity they’ve reached, what with English inside voices speaking to them, calling them rude for not acknowledging their existence.

Carefully, choosing their words, Dorian finally speaks up: “Who… are you?”

A throaty chuckle ripples throughout their entire body and it’s so strong, so present it almost makes them nauseous. Dorian can feel their stomach turning completely over and walks on wobbly legs over to the couch in their living room to sit down. The voice speaks yet again, and as they do, Dorian is _convinced_ they’re not the only one inhabiting their body. That they’re not alone in their mind.

‘Who am _I_ , you ask? I don’t possess a name, I am merely a part of your conscience. But if you feel the need to call me anything, you’re welcome to try… Mr. Voice,’ it settles on, bitterness coating the name it chose for and by itself.

Great, Dorian thinks, feeling feverish. Now this voice has an identity, a name. One that Dorian isn’t too keen on calling it.

“I don’t think I’ll be calling you anything just yet,” they answer skeptically, not trusting this entity, or rather, not trusting _themselves_.

Are things like these even possible? Can your mind create voices with their own character and feelings? It feels like something out of a sci-fi movie, and sci-fi isn’t Dorian’s favorite genre.

‘Fair enough.’

Dorian rolls their eyes, irritated they’re not getting much else out of the voice. They suppose they have to start asking the right questions.

“So you’re a part of my conscious? Like Jiminy Cricket?”

‘Something like that, yes,’ hums the voice, although it’s clear to Dorian it doesn’t have a clue what they’re referring to. Which, in of itself, is a _horrifying_ realization. Why would a part of Dorian not know a fact the rest of them does?

“What do you want? Why are you here?”

Laughter rings out again, and Dorian clutches onto the armrest of the sofa, uneasy and barely containing the panic surging through their body, making their chest feel constricted. They squeeze their eyes shut until white spots dance across their vision. Maybe this is all just a bad dream, after all.

They pinch their arm, but they don’t wake up.

‘So many questions! There’s no need to fret, Dorian, I’m not going to hurt you. I understand that this might be a bit scary-’

“Like Hell you do!” Dorian snaps, loud in the relative silence of the room. A moment passes and, briefly, they think they’ve gotten rid of the other entity, but then a sigh sounds, and Dorian has half a mind to knock themselves out cold just so they could wake up the next morning and start anew. To ignore this day altogether, like nothing ever happened.

‘-... As I was saying, I mean you no harm. I’m here to guide you, to help you find your purpose in life, to put it simply.’

Dorian finds it highly unlikely that _anyone_ , inside voice or not, can help them with that. They’ve been trying to find their purpose in life for years and to no avail. Yet they’re intrigued by the choice of words.

“And how do you propose you’ll do that?”

‘Well, if I could be so bold, I think it’d be better if I just _showed_ you.’

“Oh?” asks Dorian, an eyebrow arched. They look around them expectantly but nothing is happening, everything’s quiet and Dorian’s still alone. This should be a relief to them, but they can’t help the feeling of curiosity creeping up on them.

‘Yes, I think that would be better. Do you mind heading outside for me?’

This is a trap, isn’t it? Why else would the voice coax them outside where they could be grabbed, vulnerable and alone? But Dorian has this twisted sense of humor that tells them they have already been put inside a mental asylum and are currently walking along the walls of a white isolation room. That’s why they’re hearing voices, and why Dorian agrees to the voice’s request. However, if this truly _is_ reality, and they could be put putting themselves in potential danger by going outside, they aren’t going unarmed. They still have _some_ common sense left. So they rummage through a drawer in the kitchen and find a screwdriver and pepper spray. They can’t carry a gun or a knife, so this is the next best option.

‘I understand your precautions, Dorian, you’re clearly bright. But even bright people have to make choices,’

What is he on about?

Dorian catches themselves in the act, and they click their tongue in disapproval. They’re already referring to the voice by pronouns. God, what's next? _Befriending_ the voice?

‘So I’ll have to ask you only to bring _one_ thing with you.’ the voice finishes, solemn, and Dorian is shocked by its audacity. They make a show of putting both items in their pockets anyway, unsure of where to direct their indignant glare but feeling like they’ve proved their point nonetheless.

‘Hint taken. No matter, you’ll see no harm will come to you when you walk out the door…’ 

* * *

Stepping out of the apartment complex, Dorian isn’t quite sure what to expect. The garden outside is nearly empty, save for a few teens loitering around a makeshift campfire, flicking cigarette butts into the flames. There are three of them, one with blue pigtails, one with unruly brown hair and lined eyes, and one with shoulder-length hair and a leather jacket. None of them are wearing the Happy Face™ masks that so many adults and elders insist they do, not even the one with blue hair whose face is scarred, and this makes Dorian smile, momentarily forgetting about the voice accompanying them.

Only a year or so ago, a huge protest and Anti-Happy Face movement was started by hundreds of youths in central Stockholm. They came out and refused to wear their masks, showing their unfiltered emotions and it was incredibly powerful, not to mention effective. The message “your feelings are valid and healthy” spread like wildfire throughout the country, and now nearly no teens or young adults wore them anymore, much to Dorian’s delight. They never as much as purchased one of their own, despite their parents’ disapproval. Their father wasn’t around to witness his kid being just as depressed without it, anyway.

One of the teens, the girl with the biker jacket, spots Dorian and flashes them a light smile, which Dorian happily returns, almost considering joining them, but.

‘Ah. Do you know those kids, Dorian?’

Right. The voice is still here. Dorian contemplates the option of not answering its question.

“No, I don’t. You wanna show me my purpose in life or whatever so I can get back to painting already, or…?”

A snicker. A crow lands next to Dorian, its feathers dark as the night. It stares them down.

An unpleasant shudder courses down Dorian’s spine. They’re starting to regret their decision in obeying the voice’s invocation of heading outside.

‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy. But you’re not one to turn down a good adventure, are you?’ its tone is almost teasing, cocky like it already knows Dorian will agree to its conditions and weird rules.

Well, Dorian has another thing coming for it.

“So what if I am? What if I’m not interested?” but they stop there, registering the pairs of eyes on them. The teens around the campfire are staring at them like they’ve hit their head, part amused and part concerned. Dorian flushes hot, realizing it must sound like they’re just talking to themselves. They slip away from the garden and hit the streets, not sure where they’re headed but not turning around again. This is the final proof Dorian needs to know they’re the only one who can hear this British asshole.

‘I should have mentioned that no one else can hear me but you. I _told_ you I was a figment of your imagination.’

‘Uh-huh, thanks for the warning,’ Dorian thinks back instead of muttering it, their blood boiling. They kick a crumpled up can laying on the sidewalk and it scares a stray couple of birds - no, not birds, _crows_ \- away, the flapping of wings and a chorus of upset caws filling the autumn-cold air.

‘As to you declining my proposal, nothing will happen if you do. But there _are_ consequences to your actions, as I’m sure you already know.”

‘Yeah, yeah. But if I do as you say, find my purpose in life or whatever, will you leave me alone?’ Dorian thinks as loud as they can, testing if they can communicate with the entity without needing to open their mouth. Things turn quiet for a long moment, except for Dorian’s scuffed sneakers dragging across the asphalt and the distant noise of light traffic. Dorian passes a drugstore, then an empty pinboard. They see the remnants of missing children-posters stubbornly hammered into the wood, desperate and pleading, but it’s been long since they were put up. Still, a frown weighs at Dorian’s lips.

‘If me leaving you alone is what you want, then the answer’s yes. You have my word.’

Ah, so the entity’s still here. And it can hear Dorian’s thoughts. Terrific. Why does Dorian have this sneaky feeling that the voice isn’t completely sincere when giving its word?

Still, they’ll try anything to get rid of it, so they nod.

‘Fine. Tell me what to do then, where to go.’

‘With pleasure!’


	2. Black birds and an antler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Mr. Voice leads Dorian into a forest and asks them to activate what looks like an ancient, cultist puzzle, Dorian realizes that his intentions might not be what they seem...

There are crows everywhere.

Wherever Dorian goes, these black birds follow, observing them. They sit on fence posts, in the grass or on rooftops, or they pick at rotting food spilled from trash bins. Dorian’s only been walking for a while, getting acquainted with a voice from their deep unconscious, who asks them questions about their life and morals. They do answer, but in as few words as possible and nothing too descriptive. They’re still not used to this, don’t think they’ll ever be, and now, with all these birds around them, they can’t stay concentrated.

“What the fuck is up with all these crows?!” they almost yell, having looked around and made sure no one was around to hear them before saying it. It was less of a question and more of a demand, they were certain this entity had something to do with it.

‘I- well, _you_ , to be precise- read in the newspaper that there’s an irruption going on,’ hums the voice, dead certain, but Dorian wants to see if he’ll budge. Wants to see if he’ll mess up and say something that’ll tell Dorian his intentions.

(Dorian has resorted to referring to the voice by masculine pronouns, just to make it easier for themselves. They’re tired of trying to figure out what he is already, and this way they don’t have to think about it. That doesn’t mean they’ll become attached to him, not in a million years)

‘I don’t read the newspaper.’ they correct him, back to thinking instead of speaking when they get to the more central part of Openfields and see more pedestrians out and about. About half of them are wearing their masks.

Dorian awaits his answer. They _do_ read the newspaper, but they’re not telling _him_ that.

‘Oh, but you do. You like to stay updated on the world, don’t you? That’s a very admirable quality.’ he praises them, still sounding very sure, and Dorian blinks a couple of times, not expecting the compliment. They do think, however, it sounds an awful lot like mollycoddling.

So they scoff, shrugging their shoulders in response.

‘Anyway, where’d you say I was going again?’

‘We’re heading through the park, remember? It’s the quickest way to get to the forest.’

Dorian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t object. Which they really _should_ , to be frank, and they know it. A stranger - an internal stranger currently occupying their mind but a stranger all the same - is leading them to the woods, a common last location for the missing kids that Openfields sadly is known for. In the woods it’ll be harder for Dorian to defend themselves, they’ll be more alone than ever, and they might just die.

But Dorian is cursed with the trait of intrigue, the intrigue of _danger_ , and they’re challenging their own mind by doing this. Besides, they still have the pepper spray and screwdriver at hand, secure in the pockets of their hoodie.

‘May I ask you some personal questions, Dorian?’

‘Like my saying no will stop you.’ they think, shoving their hands deeper into their pockets and feeling around the texture and weight of their concealed weapons. Having them close by eases their anxiety.

Ignoring their petulance, the voice pushes on, saying ‘You don’t wear a mask. Why?’ and that one’s easy to answer.

‘Because the masks are bullshit. Why should we hide our emotions? They are what makes us human, after all.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ mutters (what he refers to himself as) Mr. Voice, but he sounds unsure.

‘We need to feel sad sometimes to truly feel happy, y’know?' Dorian clarifies then, taking pity on the voice.

Only God knows why.

‘You can’t have a rainbow without rain, after all.’

Mr. Voice hums.

‘An interesting expression, for sure. I hope you’ll stick to it when it comes down to finding your life’s purpose as well.'

_We’ll just have to see about that._

Dorian reaches the other end of the park that branches off into the forest, and it stands foreboding and ominous before them. Some crows vacate the branches on the trees, and a shudder wrecks Dorian’s body. It’s handing them clear warning signs, and Dorian’s stepping right over them. They enter the forest.

‘Next question: do you feel lonely?’

Dorian pauses a bit at that, not too excited to answer it. And it hits them that they don’t have to.

“No,” they say aloud, as though that’ll somehow make it sound more believable.

‘Okay…’ Mr. Voice lets on with after a beat, doubt lacing his tone. So he can read all of Dorian’s thoughts. That’s concerning.

‘Last one then: what do you think your purpose in life is?’

 _Damn_. That’s hard-hitting. Dorian throws a glance over their shoulder, this sudden sense of someone following them present. Besides the crows, that is. It’s barely a hunch, but it’s there nonetheless.

“I don’t think I _have_ one if I’m being honest. I don’t think any of us do. We’re all destined for different things, some greater than others, but I think it’s up to ourselves what we want to accomplish in life, what we want to leave after us when we’re gone.”

A weight lifts from Dorian’s shoulders when they answer, the honesty of it surprising them. They didn’t think they were going to go all deep and shit with their subconscious on a stroll through the woods, but here they were. The voice inside their head seems to need a moment to recover before speaking.

The silence in between sentences is deafening.

‘That is… very astute of you. Thank you for your honesty,’ he replies, careful.

Dorian stops dead in their tracks when they hear the rustling of leaves and sees a bush on their left moving. This is it, they think and pull out their screwdriver, keeping the sharp end of it pointed outward in defense.

The flash of brown, beady eyes and a black-tipped tail shows. A fox jumps out of the bush and by Dorian’s legs to run off. Dorian releases a breath they didn’t know they were holding, laughing as they put away their weapon.

“Fuck, that scared the shit out of me.”

‘I _hate_ foxes,’ mumbles Mr. Voice, seething. He almost sounds harried, his tone breathy as though what he saw had scared him, and isn’t that a thought.

“Aw, come on Mr. Voice, it was just a widdle-baby fox wanting to play,” they coo mockingly, not registering the name until it’s out there, heavy in the air. An entire flock of crows lift from their hiding spot in a tree and fly off in a cloud of black wings, and Dorian startles.

‘You called me by name. It makes me happy to hear that you’re finally starting to trust me.’

Dorian barks out a laugh, forced and unnatural. Their face warms and they have no idea why.

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves... So what exactly do you want me to do?”

‘It’s just a little further ahead. You’ll see it when you reach it,’ assures Mr. Voice, and although Dorian doesn’t like the sound of that, they continue along the path in the forest anyway, too far gone to return now.

They do see something out of place in between the trees, and for a moment, they thought it was a gravestone. And that’s not quite it, but seeing its form up close is not disarming in the slightest.

A tall stone stands almost up to Dorian’s height with these rune-like engravings in it. An outline of what Dorian can only describe as a bird is etched into it, but there’s a large, round hole where the eye is supposed to be.

The stone seems to be ruminating some sort of energy as well, dark and menacing. Dorian takes a step back, shaking their head.

“I have to say, I’m not a big fan of whatever this is.”

‘It may look threatening, but I promise it isn’t. It’s only a step toward finding your life’s purpose. Now, if you’d be so kind and turn around…’

Dorian swishes around rather than turns, terrified to see someone - maybe a hooded figure with glowing red eyes like the demons from the fairytales, or a person they know from school that has secretly been stalking them - but all that catches their eye is a chunk of stone lying in the grass, with the etching of an eye carved into it. They put two and two together.

“No.”

‘No? But I haven’t-’

“You don’t need to,” interrupts Dorian, feeling angry and betrayed. They should have seen it coming, of course. They knew they couldn’t trust the voice from the start, but they’re _disappointed_.

“I see your game. I don’t know what sort of weird satanic ritual shit this is, but I’m not doing it.”

And with that, Dorian marches off, one hand resting on the screwdriver in their pocket while the other flips off a crowd of black birds that take off flying when they get closer.

‘Satanic ritual- where would you get that idea from? I think you’ve watched one too many horror movies, dear,’ tries the voice, a mere plea disguised as a controlled fact, and Dorian doesn’t want to hear it. They block their ears with their hands in an attempt to get rid of the voice but hear it just as clear despite that.

‘Dorian, you’re overreacting, please slow down.’

 _Overreacting my ass,_ thinks Dorian, their breathing too fast, too shaky. They just want the voice to go away and to leave them the fuck alone. Why was that so hard to underst-

They step on something sharp, and it cracks beneath their shoe. They stop and pick it up.

It’s a horn of some sort, an antler. It looks like it belongs to a deer or a stag, but its color is ashy, littered in black spots. Dried blood splatters the thicker end of it, and Dorian muses that whatever animal was here must have shed it. Only it’s October, nowhere near shedding season, so perhaps the animal was hurt?

‘Must belong to a deer.’ mutters Mr. Voice, unfortunately still present. But he sounds almost anxious when he says it.

“It’s hurt,” Dorian whispers, running their fingers along the hard surface of one of the pointed edges. The horn almost ruminates with energy, almost like Dorian can feel its owner through it and they just shed it.

‘It’s fine.’ argues Mr. Voice then, brash and hurried.

For some Godforsaken reason, Dorian softens, giving their ‘subconscious’ voice the benefit of the doubt that he’s trying to kill them.

“Look, I don’t know what your endgame is, but as long as you don’t force me to do any cryptic puzzles like the one back in the woods, I guess we’re okay.”

‘You… really?’

Dorian rolls their eyes, carefully putting the shed antler back in its place before moving out of the forest.

“Yes, really. Now, before I change my mind, where to?” 

* * *

It’s on a bus heading towards the local harbor that Dorian starts questioning the nature of the voice inside their head. He’s friendly and all, but a bit too friendly for Dorian’s taste. Usually, when people are this kind to them, they want something from them. And sure, Mr. Voice might not be a real person (he _can’t_ be, can he?) but he obviously has a mind of his own, and he keeps trying to… gather information about Dorian. It’s a tad creepy.

So when Mr. Voice brings up asking Dorian more questions, they reply with ‘only if I can do the same. A question for a question. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?’ and then their mind goes eerily quiet. Dorian can hear the chatter of some kids in the back of the bus, the honking of a car horn further away.

‘I suppose it does. Well, for my first question, then; what are your fears?’

That’s a softball question. And although part of Dorian worries he might use their fears against them, the rest of them knows that’s purely impossible.

‘Oh y’know, bugs, heights, big crowds… But if you mean more existential ones, I guess loneliness isn’t all that appetizing to me. I mean, could you imagine dying alone?' they chuckle awkwardly, not wanting to go too deep or get emotional, especially not on a public bus. Not many other passengers are here, but still.

Dorian spots the flapping of black wings outside the bus window, and they grimace.

‘Hey, you still there?’ they call out in their mind, surprised by the silence that followed their statement. Did they offend the voice?

They shake their head, scoffing at themselves. Why are they trying to be considerate of a voice that belongs to their own Goddamn mind?

‘I am. And that is a valid fear, yes... I suppose it’s your turn.’

‘Let me think…’

It’s like 20 questions, Dorian contemplates, amused. Only the questions are all existential. Maybe they should lighten the mood a little. And they _are_ curious if the voice has access to all of their memories.

They click their tongue, crossing their legs. They’re just a station or two away from their destination.

‘Okay then. What’re your hobbies?’

Silence. Again. When Mr. Voice speaks, he sounds collected, but forcibly so.

‘ _That’s_ your question?’

‘Well, what are _my_ hobbies, I guess would be more appropriate. If you truly are a part of my subconscious as you claim, then you should know.’ they challenge him, catching him sputtering. _I got you now, you weirdo,_ they think, victorious.

‘Painting, for one.’

‘Yeah, but you only know that ‘cause you saw me doing it earlier today…’ they sigh, then sit more upright.

‘Did you like it, by the way, my painting?’

They cringe a little at their obvious need for approval, but they don’t often share the results of their paintings with friends, so they can’t help but ask.

‘I did. Your color palette is quite tasteful, and I liked the touch with the flip flops.’

‘Right?! I actually got the idea from a friend, she’s-’ they cut themselves off, they’re getting off-topic. The bus glides to a stop at the harbor, and they jump off. What they’re to do here they still don’t know, Mr. Voice led them the way, but they figure they’ll hear it sooner or later anyway.

‘Hey, don’t try to change the subject! What else do I like to do?’

As they ask this, they look out over the small dock. A tiny lake is embedded with just a few boats bobbing in the water, and even fewer people around. _What am I doing here? Why am I following his orders?_ they wonder, completely stumped. They feel like one of those idiots in a horror movie, throwing themselves headfirst into danger. They walk down a wavering path to sit down on the dock, dangling their legs over the water. They once again notice the voice’s lethargy in answering.

‘You like to play the guitar, don’t you?’ he asks, carefully.

And yes, Dorian _does_ like to play the guitar, but that’s an easy guess since art and music are very much connected. You don’t often find people who like one and despises the other. Either way, they’re too tired to argue, so they let him off the hook.

‘Lucky shot. Fine, give me another question.’

‘What _are_ your hobbies? Besides painting and playing musical instruments, that is,' he corrects himself. It’s odd, but Dorian can’t help the smile creeping up on their face when they realize he’s showing an interest in their life. They must have a screw loose.

‘Well, I like singing, too. And I write sometimes, but not well. I guess I’m kind of boring, really.’

‘Not at all,’ insists Mr. Voice quite quickly. Dorian flushes, but ignores it, shrugging their shoulders.

‘I also like talking to friends on Discord, sharing memes, that sort of thing.’ they continue on, incredulous that they’re having a pleasant conversation for once.

‘Of course,’ Mr. Voice says, and it sounds like he has no idea what they’re talking about. Dorian suppresses a laugh. However, the pleasantries don’t last too long, because suddenly, the old planks of the dock creak beneath Dorian (why? They were fine just moments ago!) and before they can move, the wood breaks and gives way. Dorian gets drenched in a matter of seconds, anchoring themselves to a piece of land and staring wide-eyed at the board pieces that somehow seems to have gotten stuck in the ground, sharp edges pointing up towards the sky. If they had landed wrong, they wouldn’t be getting up again.

“Fuck, that could’ve killed me!” they pant, dragging themselves up on land.

‘Are you alright, Dorian?’

“Do I look alright?!” Dorian snaps, putting some distance between them and the dock. More crows are here now, watching them intently, and they have half a mind to chase them and try to scare them off. Fuck of a lot that would do, though.

“Why did the dock break in the first place?” they mumble, trying to dry off by taking off their hoodie and wrenching the water out of their clothes. They hiss when they touch their right forearm and their hand comes back bloodied.

A gashing wound stretches over Dorian’s skin, coating their sleeve in red, and they wince when they prod at it and a wave of pain shoots up their arm. They must have gotten cut by one of the board planks…

‘Maybe the planks were old?’ suggests Mr. Voice, infuriatingly calm.

"Yea they were, but I sat for a good five minutes and it was fine!"

As they unfold their sleeve and continue to the bus stop to get back home, they let their anger drive them on autopilot. So they ask, smiling bitterly; ‘It’s my turn to ask a question. You’re not a figment of my imagination at all, are you?’

And everything goes painfully quiet.


	3. Knock knock, who's there?

Dorian? Meet rock bottom.

Here they are, at the bus on their way home, drenched and cold, trying to shut out the voice in their head that tells them to turn back and trust his commands. They whisper beneath their breath, trying not to gain the attention of any other passengers, cupping their hands over their ears in a feeble attempt to shut the voice up.

‘Get out of my head, get out of my head, get out of my-’

‘Dorian. You’re not thinking straight. _Please_ , calm down.’ tries the voice, the collected tone he had in the beginning nowhere to be found, and that’s freaking Dorian out even more. '

‘How am I supposed to do that when you’re STILL here?!’

They try to breathe deeply, to keep the little sanity they have left afloat, to avoid breaking down on this public bus for everyone to see. They’re almost home now, just a little longer…

‘Where are you going? I’m worried about you.’

‘Home. I’m going home. I’m done with your shit, I won’t listen to a single thing you have to say,’ Dorian thinks as loudly as they can to get their point across, noticing that a kid in the seat in front of them is staring at them, their head on tilt. Any glares or sneers sent their way is to no avail, since the kid could only be about eight years old and clearly has no manners. This combined with the volume of Dorian’s mind causes them to snap.

“Stop staring!” they promptly shout, jumping up from their seat and fleeing to the bus’s doors. They bang on the stop button like a lunatic and as soon as the bus halts to a stop, they run, not looking back to the tens of eyes following them through the bus windows or the crowd of crows gathered on the bus roof.

They’re stations away from their apartment, but they keep running until they’re heaving and their throat feels like sandpaper.

The voice is silent for once, but Dorian is far past the point of lucid, desperate to get inside their flat so they can have that panic attack their body so badly needs. They want this day to be over, they want to go to sleep and not wake up until this entity has left their head, they want-

There. The entryway to the stairwell. They open the door with shaking hands and stumble up the stairs and inside their apartment, slamming the door shut and collapsing against it, gliding down it onto the floor.

‘Dorian? Are you-’

“I TOLD YOU TO GET **THE** **FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD! _NOW!”_**

They shout until the voice stops pleading, until their throat hurts and their vision blurs with tears. Soon enough, their body and mind can’t take anymore and shuts down, and everything goes black.

* * *

When Dorian wakes up, they’re disoriented at first. They’re face down on the floor in front of their door, hangover style, their head pounding and their throat sore. They temporarily think they have woken up from a long nightmare, but then they spot the wound on their arm they got from falling through the deck at the harbor and they tense up.

Cautiously, Dorian tries to speak, hearing how rough they sound.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

Nothing. Zip. Nada. They should be _ecstatic_ with the answering silence, but a pit of anxiety forms inside their chest instead. If he’s not here, with them inside of their head, where is he?

“... Mr. Voice?” they try, then bite their tongue and shake their head. He-... _It’s_ not going to reply. It’s gone. It’s **_finally_** gone. Dorian got what they wanted.

So have they found their purpose in life? To scream and cry themselves to sleep in an endless cycle of self-torture? The deal was for Dorian to find the purpose of their miserable life, and only then would the voice leave them alone. Maybe that‘s it.

They stand up on rather unsteady legs after another few minutes of what _should_ be blissful silence - but everything feels uneasy. Like something horrible is going to happen.

They look out the glass door leading to their balcony and see that the sky has darkened. It’s not dark blue or pitch black, but rather a wine red, the shade wrong and unnatural. It’s making their skin crawl. They must be seeing shit that isn’t there, or maybe it’s the sun’s light making the sky look red?

But no, there are stars in the sky. It’s nighttime.

Dorian practically runs up to the balcony door and shut the blinds on the window. They pull every pair of blinds and curtains there are in the apartment and then pause in the middle of their living room, chest heaving, and their eyes filled with tears. They look at the canvas holding their painting, but when they see that it’s not what it was when they left it, they scream, and they don’t stop.

What once was a happy little bird with red and yellow feathers and wearing cute little flip-flops is now a dead little bird laying on the pavement, upside down with their head cut off, colorful feathers bloodied and flip flops laying in a cross beside them. Surrounding it are a dozen of crows with red eyes, not looking at the fallen victim but right at Dorian.

Suddenly, the apartment shakes, _rumbles_ , almost, and all the curtains and blinds fly open. Dorian stands glued to the spot in their flat, frozen solid with fear, mouth agape as they meet eyes with dozens of crows crowding up against their windows, littering their balcony. Their red eyes radiate malevolence, they caw angrily and flap their wings against the glass - the harsh sound of bones lashing against the window proof enough that they’ll soon break it.

Dorian finds their stomach flipping all the way over, a nauseating fear in the back of their throat, suffocating. They can feel the presence that previously occupied their mind, but now it’s stronger than ever before, almost enclosing the entire building. And they have a feeling it’s not here to chat.

There’s a forceful knock on the front door, then another, and a third. Dorian barely manages to turn around, unable to flee as they watch the handle slowly get pulled down, a shriek lodged in their throat when a voice sounds right outside the door.

“Knock knock, Dorian.”

This has to be a nightmare. It _has_ to be, Dorian thinks, squeezing their eyes shut until stars dance across the black of their eyelids, praying to God that they wake up.

'Now don’t be rude, Sweetheart, I’ve taught you better than that. Let your guest in, won’t you?'

They open their eyes again when their attempt to wake up is to no avail, only to see the door get tugged at with an incredible force, shaking the wall until it starts cracking from the doorframe and out. With the chain latched on, the door won’t budge further than a few inches, and a clawed hand slips inside then, digging into the wood of the door and tearing it with a dreadful sound. Wood chips fly everywhere.

Seeing this entity, or more precisely a _part_ of it, for the first time is like a punch to the face. It had been talking to Dorian for almost an entire day, insisting that it cares about them, showing friendly interest in them. All to kill them.

Falling onto their ass, Dorian scrambles backward until their back hits the balcony door, where crows are shrieking outside. They’re trapped.

“I’ll let myself in, then,” threatens the voice, that same clawed hand moving up to the chain and slowly unlatching it.

“No! No, no, no, please don’t!” cries Dorian, holding their hands above their head to defend themselves and curling up into a ball against the balcony door. A blood-curling, icy laugh fills the air as the door creaks open, but Dorian doesn’t dare watch, can’t do anything but sob as they brace themselves for their death.

Then, a hand lands on their head. But it’s soft and human and clawless, as well as the voice that speaks next.

“Dorian? What in God’s name are you doing?”

Dorian snaps their head up, blinking and gaping at the sight before them. Everything’s back to normal again. There are no crows outside their balcony, not by the sound of it, the dark energy has disappeared and in front of Dorian stands their mom, looking very concerned.

“M- Mom?” they ask, tears still slipping down their puffy cheeks, their whole body trembling as they accept the hand their mom offers them.

“Yes, who were you expecting? I called you yesterday and said I would come visit!”

“You did?”

Their mom looks so scared for them, and Dorian hates to worry her, so they furiously wipe at their eyes with their sleeve, forcing themselves to calm down.

“I mean- you _did_. I remember now. Sorry.”

They can’t quite stand up yet, so they make an excuse that they’ve fallen and sprained their leg. Their mom nods, but with a very doubtful look in her eyes. She helps them up.

“Why was your door unlocked? I’ve told you, Openfields may be small, but that’s even more reason to stay safe!”

Oh, the door! Dorian drags themselves close enough to inspect it and _fuck_ \- there are no claw marks on it. They whip around and see that the sky outside the window is blue again. It’s only _evening_ , and there are no crows in sight. Wait, does that mean-...

They extend their arm out to look at it. They’re not wounded! What the fuck, they’re fine! They’ve never been so happy to be fine before!

A sob falls from their lips, but it’s not one of horror or pain. It’s one of extreme relief, and they ignore their mother’s questions to pull her into a bone tight hug, collapsing into her arms.

“Holy shit mom, I’m fine. I’m fucking fine!”

“Hey, language! You don’t seem fine to me,” she scolds worriedly but hugs their child back, all the same, if a bit confused. She has every right to be, after all. But Dorian can’t tell her about what’s happened to them today - or _hasn’t_ happened? - they’ll sound completely manic! And now that they know it all was a bad dream just like they thought, they’re okay. They can even see their unfinished painting from here, the bird wearing flip flops, alive and in one piece.

“I am, I promise I am. I’ve just had a rough day, a pill defect I think. I’ll talk to the doctor about it tomorrow.”

Their mom looks reluctant to believe them, and much more so to leave them on their own after staying for a coffee and a talk - about everything _but_ Dorian’s day - however, Dorian eventually manages to convince her to go. They feel much better, they really do, and maybe this fever dream truly _was_ a defect from their antidepressants. It would explain a lot.

When the evening continues as any normal evening would - they even had a talk with some friends on Discord and things felt unchanged - Dorian is more than convinced that their mind was just playing tricks on them. That they had a very realistic, _very_ fucked up dream, and they smooth over the fact that they don’t remember waking up in between the creature entering their house and their mom being there.

_Don’t think about it, it’s over now._

Right. They’re fine, they’re good. In fact, they’ve never been better.

They manage to make a background for their flip flop-bird, a grassy field with flowers, and they finish it up with their signature, DI for Dorian Incommodum.

“Hell yeah,” they smile to themselves, taking in their work.

Walking up to a window, they see that the same group of teens are outside again, laughing and having fun, and they make a decision to head out of their apartment and join them.

The air outside is fresh and there are no birds - no _crows_ \- anywhere to be found.

Dorian’s new friends are nice and fun to talk to. The girl that had waved at them earlier is called Ash, short for Ashley, and the other three’s names are Larry, Sal and Todd. Sal wears a mask, but not one of the Happy Face- masks™ that you’d think he would be wearing. Dorian doesn’t want to be impolite and ask, but Sally catches on to their - attempted to be _discreet_ \- glances soon enough and points at their own face.

“Prosthetic,” he says, and that’s that.

They finds themselves happy sitting here around this small, shitty, makeshift campfire, sharing stories with the group and making smores with stuff Dorian brought from their kitchen. They’re listening along to a discussion Todd and Larry has about some horror movie called birds - ironically enough - when their gaze drifts to something moving in the treeline in the distance. They can’t quite make out the shape from here, so they squint their eyes, and their blood freezes to ice when they register what it is that they’re seeing.

A tall, deer-like creature looms between the trees, dark and imposing, with glowing red eyes staring back into theirs and one antler peeking out from their skull-clad head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the story of Dorian Incommodum comes to its (open to interpretation) end. This was a work-out to write, but I had so much fun! And although I'm nervous posting this last chapter, I hope you enjoyed it. This is my very first attempt at writing anything horror, so if you have any feedback or critiques, please consider dropping them below. They help a lot. Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
